Un Dì, Felice, Eterea
by RedStockingsAndAWimple
Summary: At age twenty, Lovino Vargas has everything he could ever want from life: talent, wealth, and success. When he finds romance with a handsome Spaniard, however, Lovino discovers just how much he is willing to sacrifice for love. Based on Giuseppe Verdi's La Traviata.


This is a prequel to my fic "_L'amour est un Oiseau Rebelle_", but you don't need to read that to understand this one.

* * *

"_We have a tale to tell if you will listen_

_and would like to know how we can love."_

* * *

"Lovino, the mail has arrived!" Feliciano cheerfully announced from the hall.

"You handle it! I have no interest in what those bastards have to say!" Lovino called back. "Besides, I am busy!" He did not look away from his canvas. His eyebrows drew together slightly as he focused on a small bunch of green leaves near Venus's hip. His brush slid across them carefully, adding different shades to make the alabaster white of the goddess's skin stand out more fully. Such a task required all of his concentration. Feliciano could chatter on and on about anything under the sun while he painted, but Lovino required quiet and a serious atmosphere. His behavior had not won him many friends; he had never been impressed with people who busied themselves by looking over an artist's shoulder while he worked. The completed piece spoke for itself. That was just what Lovino wanted.

"Most of them do not seem to be terribly important," Feliciano said, walking into the studio.

"Feliciano," Lovino began, his voice low and rough. Lovino only used that tone to warn Feliciano to shut up or suffer the consequences. Of course, the consequences were hardly severe. A glare was the worst Lovino could usually muster against his younger brother. Once though, he had grown so frustrated that he grabbed Feliciano by the neck, sending them tumbling to the ground. They rolled around helplessly on the floor, struggling against each other, until they sent a small statue of Minerva crashing down. Luckily, it was undamaged, but they had spilt paints, sent pencils and brushes scattering across the room, and ruined about two months of work. After that, the brothers made two rules: keep the antiques in a safe, secure spot and no wrestling, at least in the studio.

Feliciano sat on the stool beside his own easel, a small pile of letters in his hands. "Aren't you interested to hear what we received?"

"I told you no. And if you insist on going through every one of those, I might as well stop working now."

"I'm sorry, Lovi." Feliciano smiled apologetically. "I won't bother you."

"Thank you."

Scarcely five minutes passed before Feliciano let out a little cry of surprise. "Oh!"

"Feli!"

"I know, Lovino. But we have a letter from the lovely Emma."

Lovino set his brushes and palette aside. "What does she say?" he asked, feigning indifference.

"Let me see." Feliciano opened the envelope. He pulled out the letter, two pages of pale blue paper. "Oh," he sighed, disappointed. Instantly, Lovino sat up straighter.

"What? What is it? Is she all right? She isn't ill, is she?"

"I thought you were not interested?" Lovino did not reply. His cheeks flushed. Feliciano grinned. "No, no, it is nothing like that. She just writes that she will not be able to attend our birthday party, but she sends her wishes, and she will see us soon. She also says that our presents should arrive in a couple of days." Feliciano thought for a moment. "I wonder what they could be."

"It is not chocolate," Lovino told him. "She would not risk it melting or getting damaged through the mail."

"You are probably right." Feliciano regarded him curiously. "You seemed very concerned for Miss Emma's wellbeing."

"Did I? Well, she was my first patron, and she is a good friend."

"I see. I had started to wonder if…"

"No, Feli."

"No?"

"No." Emma was charming, beautiful, and a delight to be around. She was one of the few people who genuinely seemed to enjoy Lovino's company. She never flattered him; she spoke her mind frankly but sweetly. He valued her input. Lovino would be lying if he said he never drew inspiration from Emma. The color and shape of her eyes, the curve of her lips, and the way she held her hands had all been preserved in his canvases. It was only natural. Idealization was not love, though, and Lovino knew that well. "Now shut up about it," he ordered.

"Of course, Lovi." Feliciano again began sorting through the envelopes, opening each one, and carefully reading the contents. He was quiet for several minutes, occasionally murmuring something to himself. Lovino considered resuming his work when Feliciano suddenly raised his head and announced, "Uncle Pietro, Mario, and Valentino all send birthday greetings, but they cannot make it to the party."

"What are they up to?"

"Mario says he is on duty that day, Valentino is ill, and Uncle Pietro says he will be otherwise detained."

Lovino snorted. "I doubt Uncle Pietro would come even if His Holiness personally ordered him to." Their great-uncle never looked favorably on their lifestyle or their expenses. A devout priest, he believed in thrift, simplicity, and modesty, things neither Lovino nor Feliciano saw much value in. They were young, successful, and wealthy. Why not enjoy life to the fullest? "Did he say anything else?"

"Just that we should continue going to Mass and remember that the things of this world are temporary."

"He is getting repetitious." Lovino shook his head. "He knows he go to Mass."

"I expect he just wanted to remind us."

"Maybe. What else do you have?"

"Let me see." Feliciano pulled out another letter. His face lit up. "Francis is coming!"

Lovino stared at his brother in shock. "You invited that bastard?"

"Of course," Feliciano replied as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "He studied with Grandpa, and he is a friend. It would have been rude not to invite him."

"But he cannot keep his hands to himself!" Stupid Frenchman with his stupid ideas about love. A few words from him, and every poor idiot within ten feet tripped over themselves in complete adoration. Lovino did not see the great appeal. Maybe Francis Bonnefoy was well built and took good care of his hair, but that was it. The way he lavished attention on Feliciano, treating him like a younger brother, even giving him advice about art…that was too much. "Have you lost your mind? Before the evening is over, he will have seduced half the women and a quarter of the men! The last thing I want on my birthday is to wander around my own house and fear that I will go blind because that pervert has his damn hands underneath some woman's gown!"

"Lovi, be nice! You are exaggerating. Francis isn't that bad. Besides, he is going to bring a friend."

"Wonderful. Another asshole I have to worry about."

"Now you are being ridiculous. Francis says his name is Antonio. He is staying with him and wants to know if it is all right to bring him."

"Tell him no, damn it."

"I will tell him yes."

"Feliciano!"

"Lovino! It would be rude to force Francis' friend to stay home while he goes out and enjoys himself. I will write to him this afternoon."

Exasperated, Lovino threw up his hands. "Fine then, you idiot. What is another depraved bastard in our home, after all?" Lovino imagined it easily. Francis and his friend running through the halls, drinking all the wine, eating their fill of the food, chasing after the women, distracting all the guests, and finally, leaving their house looking like a pigsty. Anticipation for his birthday was now tinged with dread. "Stupid fucking Frenchmen and their stupid fucking friends," he thought.

"Roderich Edelstein is coming too," Feliciano declared.

"Your old music teacher? I thought you hated him."

Feliciano shook his head. "I used to be terrified of him, but I never hated him. He isn't bad at all."

"You say that about everyone." Despite what Feliciano said, Lovino remembered his brother drawing pictures of Edelstein with large, ridiculous mustaches and hiding under the bed so he would not have his music lessons. Lovino never blamed him. Edelstein took music seriously, too seriously. He frequently grew frustrated with Feliciano's poor playing. Yet Feliciano had sent him an invitation, and Edelstein accepted it. That was just Feliciano's way. He was gracious to every person he met, smiling and conversing with them. He won people's love that way. So he invited them to come to the party, and they came because it was _Feliciano_ who asked.

"I guess I do. This might cheer you up, though. Sadik Adnan writes that he accept our invitation."

Lovino raised an eyebrow. "Why would that make me happy?"

Feliciano shrugged. "I don't know. I just thought he was always very friendly towards you."

"Maybe a little." Lovino had meet Adnan at an exhibition the year before. He found the Turkish man to be very sophisticated, if a little mysterious. He and Adnan had a long conversation about art; later, he had invited Lovino to see his personal collection. He always seemed a combination of bemused and charmed by Lovino's manner and temper. Lovino was not sure what to think of that. Still, he was interesting, and his company was tolerable.

"Good. I had hoped there would be someone you could talk to."

"I talk to lots of people!" Lovino protested. Even if he spoke more curtly than his brother, that did not mean he was not conversationalist. Lovino simply believed in getting to the point and avoiding useless pleasantries. Anything less was an insulting waste of time, which he had made clear multiple times to multiple people.

"What is that last one you have?" he asked, eager to change the subject.

"It is only a note from Mr. Zwingli. He says he are in debt again."

"Is that all?"

"Yes." Feliciano tossed the letter aside. "I do not know why he worries so much. We are never in debt for long."

"I think it's the asshole's only source of fun." They laughed.

"You are probably right." Finally finished reading the mail, Feliciano reached out for his own palette and resumed painting. Gesturing to Lovino's depiction of Venus and her daughters, he said, "That is good. I like it."

"Thank you." Their tastes infrequently overlapped. Of course, they both had an eye for beauty and an interest in Classical themes and forms. Feliciano, though, had completely mastered a sense of sublime grace that marked all of his paintings, especially those of the Madonna and Child. He was working on one now, depicting Mary holding the infant Christ surrounded by angels. Lovino could not paint like that. He had created his share of images of the Virgin and her Baby, but unlike Feliciano, he could not devote himself completely to that world of pure innocence and beauty. It felt strange whenever he tried. Inevitably, he always added a pose or a bit of symbolism that would force the viewers to confront the reality of the events in front of them. His decisions did not affect people's perceptions of his artwork; his painting of Aeneas leaving Dido had been well received. Even if they did, Lovino would have continued painting as he liked, damn the consequences. There were times, however, when he sometimes wished he could paint beauty like his brother.

Glancing at Feliciano's painting, he frowned at the sight of a familiar figure. Nestled among the little _putti_ was a blond angel. The figure was barely finished, but Lovino already recognized him. His large blue eyes were turned upwards, his small, plump hands pressed together in adoration. Lovino doubted the critics had noticed the angel's presence, and if they did, they probably ignored him. He saw it, though. The angel appeared again and again in Feliciano's works, from his wide expansive panel paintings to the loose pages in his sketchbook. The blond figure was a constant presence, one Feliciano never explained.

"The angel again?" he asked.

"Yes," Feliciano replied simply.

"Why?" They had had this conversation before; every time, it turned out the same. Lovino would comment on the figure. Feliciano would move around the question. Lovino would ask again. Feliciano would devise some answer that ended the subject, leaving Lovino frustrated. He never kept secrets from his brother, so he did not know why Feliciano kept this one from him. Whatever this was obviously meant something to Feliciano. Lovino resented that Feliciano refused to tell him the significance.

"I like painting him."

"Why?" he asked again.

His brother blinked several times. His tongue rolled in his mouth. Lovino saw Feliciano was trying to formulate a convincing answer. After a few minutes, he said, "Do we need a reason to paint the things we love?"

Well, that was different. This was the first time Feliciano had hinted the figure was more than simple decoration. "Who is he?"

"Does he have to be anyone?" Feliciano replied too quickly. "He is a little cherub, just like the others."

And that was that. Feliciano would say no more, and Lovino could not make him, no matter how hard he tried. Content, Feliciano returned his attention to the canvas, humming to himself. Lovino silently stared at him before he sighed and picked up his palette. The wood felt good in his hands. Gradually, he began to concentrate on the piece in front of him, letting the colors, mythology, shapes, and shadows absorb him. His paintbrush stroked the canvas.

"Mr. Łukasiewicz has arrived, sir."

"Damn it." Lovino nearly threw his brush on the ground. Was the whole world against him today?

Feliciano's face lit up with delight. "Wonderful! Please show him in, Margarita." Nodding, Margarita cast a wary glance in Lovino's direction before hurrying from the studio. Feliciano crossed his arms.

"I think you frightened her, Lovino."

"Did I? I will apologize to her." He glared at his brother. "Is there a reason you invited Łukasiewicz here?" Of all Feliciano's friends, Łukasiewicz was the one Lovino despised the most. It was not only his impossible name, although that was certainly part of it, but Lovino also detested the way he sauntered around their house, giving his stupid opinion when nobody asked for it. If Lovino wanted to know what Łukasiewicz thought, he would ask him. Łukasiewicz was very close to Feliciano, and Feliciano had told him things he had not shared with Lovino. Lovino wondered if Łukasiewicz knew the meaning of the cherub. Gritting his teeth, Lovino decided to ignore that thought.

"We are working on a present for Dr. Laurinatis."

"Why?" Dr. Laurinatis was a decent person, but Lovino did not know why Feliciano wanted to give him a painting.

Feliciano shrugged. "It is a special thank you gift after he took care of you last month."

"It was only influenza." He had fallen ill late not long after the new year. Normally this would not have been cause for concern, but the sickness lingered far longer than it should have. Lovino remained in his bed for most of January and February, plagued by fever, fatigue, and harsh coughing fits. Laurinatis had tended him well, but none of his medicines had any permanent effect. Finally, the doctor suggested that Lovino go to Sicily for a while. After a couple of weeks in the sunshine and sea air, Lovino returned home completely recovered, apart from the occasional cough and bout of tiredness. "I don't see the need for a special gift."

"Maybe, but I was worried about you, and this my way of expressing gratitude."

Feeling more amused than he should, Lovino suppressed a grin. "Fine. Do what you want."

Margarita re-entered the room. "Mr. Łukasiewicz, sir." Jumping up, Feliciano ran to the blond secretary, embraced him, and kissed both his cheeks.

"Feliks!"

"Feli!"

"Oh dear God." Lovino rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

Łukasiewicz stepped away from Feliciano. "Good afternoon to you too, Michelangelo."

"I told you not to call me that."

Łukasiewicz contemplated him for a moment. "Would you prefer me to call you something like Caravaggio?"

Lovino stood. "Łukasiewicz!"

Feliciano darted between them. "Lovino, be nice! Take it as a compliment." It was one; Lovino knew that. To be compared favorably with the Old Masters was one of the highest honors anyone could receive. It was the implications of the comparison that Lovino resented. Michelangelo and Caravaggio were brilliant, but they were notorious. Aggressive, temperamental, difficult to get along with. Terrible. That was the word the biographers had used. What if he did have a temper? Did it matter? _Oh Lovino Vargas. He is a lot like Michelangelo._ It was praise and insult, acceptance and dismissal all at once.

"Thank you," he muttered.

"You are welcome," Łukasiewicz replied.

Anxious to diffuse the situation, Feliciano turned to his friend. "How is Dr. Laurinatis?" he asked.

"Busy." Łukasiewicz pulled his gloves off. "There has been a spike of patients lately. He is with one now. We are not going to be very long, are we, Feli? I don't want him to come back to the office and see I am not there. He will get suspicious."

"Of course not. I thought we might just talk about some ideas for now. I have some examples in my rooms if you want to go look."

"I will." As he turned to leave, Łukasiewicz noticed Lovino's canvas. "Lovely," he remarked. "I prefer more color, though."

Lovino bit the inside of his mouth. "I'll remember that when I paint something for you."

"Feliks!"

"I am coming, Feli. It was pleasant seeing you again, Lovino."

"I feel the same." He did not watch Łukasiewicz leave the room.

Feliciano lingered, an odd look on his face. "I am sorry about that, Lovi. After Feliks leaves, do you want to go for a walk? I thought we might go to the fountains and then pass by the shops?"

Lovino smirked. "You only want to know if I have bought your birthday present."

"I do not!" Feliciano protested. "Have you?"

"Maybe I have, and maybe I haven't."

"That's not an answer! What if I said I have already bought yours?"

"Then I definitely haven't picked out yours." Which was a complete lie. Feliciano's present was hidden in an excellent spot; Lovino felt very proud of himself.

"What is it, then?"

"As if I'm going to tell you now! It's a surprise!" Lovino threw a balled-up rag at Feliciano's head. Feliciano ducked, and it fell uselessly to the floor. "Get out of here, you little sneak!" Feliciano tore from the studio, laughing loudly. Lovino watched him run. He chuckled before he realized he was finally alone again, with nothing to disturb him. Sitting on his stool, Lovino ran a hand through his hair and waited for his composure to return.

* * *

Notes

Lovino's nicknames come from two artists, Michelangelo Buonarroti of _David_ and Sistine Ceiling fame and Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, who was known for his gritty, realistic depictions of biblical subjects and the high contrast of light and dark in his paintings. Both of them had strong tempers, and Caravaggio even killed a man once. Feliciano has a nickname too, which we'll see in the next chapter.

Uncle Pietro is Vatican City. Mario is San Marino, and Valentino is Seborga, who for the purposes of this fic are Lovino and Feliciano's cousins.

The next chapter of "_Pro Patria Mori_" is in the works, I promise.


End file.
